The Inkwell by PublishED

The Inkwell magazin e . ISSUE V

BEDLAM THEATRE . GREG WALKER . LIMERICK COMPETITION POETRY . PROSE . DRAMA . IN SEARCH OF THE MIRACULOUS

presented by

Publish E D

THE HIVE AD

Contents 4

In search of the miraculous - a note from the editor

Editors’ pick: ‘Batter My Heart’ by Rachel Wilson

6-7

Deep Fried Ink: Professor Greg Walker on 250 years of English Literature at the University of Edinburgh

8-9

Bedlam Theatre and The Inkwell collaborate for a scriptwriting competition

10-11

An extract from the winning play: Avocado Tuesdays by Dawn-Fleur Charman

12-13

An extract from the runner up: Rattlelance by Dean James Brian Fairburn

14-15

Poetry

16-17

Prose

18-19

Poetry

20-21

Limerick Competition

22-23

Prose

24-25

Drama

26-27

Prose

28-29

Poetry

30-31

Prose

32-33

Poetry

34-37

Events and UK Competitions

Introducing the

Laura Tomlinson

Publish E D

team

without whose hard work none of this would be possible Editor in Chief General EDITORS Prose Editors Poetry Editors Drama Editors Head of design PROOFREADING

L ois Wi ls on E lizab et h Eb da le O c t avian MacEwen Vicki Madden Stephen Wor t hington C laudia Mar inaro Kar ishma Sundara Kieran Johns on Sara h Thegeby Emi ly McFarland Roisin O’ Br ien

Society president Sara h Hu l l marketing & pr Sara Pierdominici Anna Hafsteinss on events Jenny Al lan Rosie Brown advertising Tara Msiska secretary Madeleine L au lund treasurer Matt he w B e ven researcher C aroline B ottger web design James McKel lar ARTIST IN RESIDENCE L aura Tom lins on

In Search of the

Miraculous

Dip your toes into the fifth issue of PublishED’s creative writing and publishing magazine, The Inkwell. Our theme for this issue is ‘in search of the miraculous’ and once again we have a rich fountain of prose, poetry and drama for your enjoyment. We’re honoured to feature a celebration of 250 years of English Literature at the University of Edinburgh from our very own renowned Regius Professor Greg Walker. The Inkwell also had the pleasure of joining forces with Bedlam Theatre to produce a drama competition of epic proportions - don’t miss the chance to see the winning play Avocado Tuesdays performed in late March. For some light relief from searching for the miraculous, find the hilarious in our centrefold limerick competition. Your rich and rambunctious bunch of limericks would make even St. Patrick topple his Guinness. As always, it was impossible to fit all submissions into forty pages, however everything we receive will appear on our website (publishedinburgh.weebly.com) alongside digital copies of previous issues and information about upcoming events and visiting speakers. Many thanks to all those who contributed creatively and practically to this edition, in particular to the enthusiastic PublishED team and to those who kindly supported us financially and emotionally through our second year of existence!

Laura Tomlinson

Lois Wilson Editor in Chief

Editors’ Pick:

Batter My Heart I am my hammering heart, a couple of words’ affected excitement, so then I am the bitter taste of alcohol. I am the precision of what I choose to wear, layers carefully picked for a purpose with duality. I am the calculations I make, the games I choose to play. I’ve become foolish determination; the drainpipes steeped with muddied rainwater, the shoe just left in the door, the grass I flatten with every headstrong footstep. I am the smile and the giddy introduction, becoming all the false confidence of white wine. For all I am forged, I am happy. I am brimming with sensation. I am the spikes that rip through my jeans right through to my skin. I am the smoke from his cigarette; leaking into me. I am only what the stars saw and should only be judged through their clarity. I am the contentment of looking at them, the smile, lying on the wet grass next to a short circuit. I am the belief that his motives were mutated, I have an illness of sympathy. I am the dent I left on the early morning grass, dented more from another body’s weight. I am as cold and as alone as the log he took me to. I am the teary wound, glowing from the ash he let fall and die out, the blood welling where he scored open my skin. I am the cold, the oncoming cold. I am his maimed logic, I am his mind, inebriated by the thoughts and ideas of a generation of poets; a paradigm of the past. I am passion for passion’s sake, experience for the sake of experience. Rachel Wilson 5

Deep Fried REGIUS PROFESSOR GREG WALKER WRITES TO THE INKWELL ABOUT T H E 2 5 0 T H A N N I V E R S A RY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AT THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH The celebration of the 250th anniversary of the establishment of English Literature as a University subject here at Edinburgh provides a good opportunity to pause and take stock of what has changed, and what has stayed the same, in the discipline in the last quarter millennium. The anniversary marks the creation of the University’s Regius Chair of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres – arguably the first chair of English Literature in the world - by a warrant from King George III in 1762. And as the latest in the long line of Regius profs since then, I am perhaps in a good position both to appreciate the work and the precedent established by Hugh Blair, the first holder of the chair, and to sense something of the special nature of the post, the result of both its antiquity and its nature as a royal appointment. Certainly it was hard not to notice these things when the letter of appointment arrived. With most university chairs you are lucky to get a short note form the Vice Chancellor saying, ‘Dear, put his name in here, Maureen. Delighted you will be joining us. Best wishes, Ken.’ With the Regius chair there were six pages of formal warrant beginning,

“

Elizabeth the second, by the grace of God of t h e Un it e d K i n g d om of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of Our other realms and territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, to all who these presents do or may concern, GREETING!

”

Ink

If I wasn’t paying attention after the first two lines, the shout at the end probably would have done the trick. The syntax alone suggests an older, more Latinate age. But there was more to come.

“

F o r a s m u c h a s We , t a k i n g into Our Royal consideration that the office and place of Regius Professor ...is at our gift and disposal, and we, being well informed of the abilities and good endowments o f O u r Tr u s t y a n d We l l beloved Professor Greg Wa l k e r. . . f o r the discharge of the said office...

”

‘Abilities and good endowments’ took my eye, as you can imagine, and by the time of ‘Trusty and Well-beloved’ I was feeling as if I had perhaps fallen into a coma and woken up in 1522, and we had not even got to the main clause yet.

‘NOW BE IT KNOWN’ (I’m not sure what was going on with the shouting, perhaps HM had popped into the kitchen to put the kettle on and was making sure the scribe could still hear her) ‘that we have nominated, presented, constituted and appointed like as We do by these Presents nominate, present, constitute and appoint the said Greg Walker to be Regius Professor...at the said University of Edinburgh...’ Hmm, so, not simply an appointment, but a nomination, presentation and constitution as well; who knew! And, just to make sure, there was a final paragraph, ‘GIVING AND GRANTING’ (obviously back in the kitchen again, perhaps

she had forgotten the biscuits) ‘unto him the said office during our pleasure and subject to the provisions...of the Universities (Scotland) Act 1888, with all Rights and Privileges belonging thereto.’ ‘During our pleasure’ was a bit of a worry. I had visions of being called up to the Castle at short notice whenever HM and the Duke hit a problem of a literary nature over the meal table, with instructions to sort it out promptly. (‘Ah, there you are. Little fat fella, wrote a diary: what was his name?’ ‘Err, Pepys, Your Highness, Samuel Pepys?’ ‘No, Alan Clarke; it just came to me. Blimey, this chap’s less use than the last. Can we get a new one?’) But, so far so good in summary dismissal terms. What a letter like that does, though, I think (in addition to sending you off to e-bay to see what the Queen’s signature is fetching these days) is give a clear sense, not just of the Regius chair being a product of a more stately age, but of its being a chair that has always mattered in public terms. When Hugh Blair took up the Chair, he did so with a clear sense of public mission. For him the study of language and literature was both socially and politically important, in ways that the subject has perhaps lost sight of in the succeeding centuries. ‘Rhetoric’ and ‘Belles Lettres’ are, of course, tricky terms nowadays, associated as they are with empty words, spin and dilettanteism (‘chatter about Shelley’). This was perhaps why, in 1860, the Chair was renamed ‘Rhetoric and English Literature’, allowing its earnest Victorian holders to avoid any connotation that all they did was recline on chaise longues and sip absinthe. But for Hugh Blair they had a very different resonance, and were part of a carefully crafted programme of cultural education for his students. He objected strongly to the idea that rhetoric was ‘an ostentatious art, the study of words and of plausibility only, calculated to please and tickle the ear’. ‘True eloquence’, he argued, ‘is the art of placing the truth in the most advantageous light for conviction and persuasion’. So for him, the touchstone of rhetoric was authenticity, both of content (one argued best when arguing for something in which one truly believed) and of tone. Public speech, he noted, even in ‘the declamatory manner’ required for addressing large assemblies, should be founded on ‘the natural tones of grave and dignified conversation’. ‘Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own, neither imitated

from another, nor assumed upon some imaginary model which is unnatural to you.’ And oratory was as much a product of character as of technique. ‘In order to be a truly eloquent or persuasive speaker, nothing is more necessary than to be a virtuous man.’ (Sadly, the assumption was that the rhetorician was always male.) So, far from being a retreat from the real world, Rhetoric and an appreciation of belles lettres (the best forms of writing and speech) were, for Blair, the practical skills needed to play a full part in civic and national life. To compete for posts and influence with their English counterparts, Scottish students needed to speak with the same sophistication and share the same cultural references and points of taste. So Blair sought to provide them with those things. His lectures on rhetoric were laid out as a vocational programme in the classical sense envisaged by the Roman rhetoricians Quintilian and Cicero, designed to teach the skills that students would need in their future careers as church ministers, lawyers or politicians. And, because the rhetorician needed to have ‘matter’ to furnish his arguments, he needed to be widely read in the best literary and historical writings, ‘by a regular study of philosophy and the polite arts’ – especially those favoured by London Society, where Scots needed to find their place. Much may have changed, then, but then as now the study of English was having to justify its place in the curriculum in both intellectual and practical terms: as a distinct discipline with its own theoretical and technical integrity, and also as part of a wider interdisciplinary project, allied to history, philosophy and those genteel sounding ‘polite arts’. In 1762 as in 2012, Edinburgh students studied English both to expand and challenge their intellectual and emotional intelligence, and also as a preparation to go out into and change their world. And, because Blair took the further step of publishing his lectures, they also became a distance learning programme, the basis of new college courses in literature and informed private reading across the English speaking world. We are in many ways, then, living in a world shaped by Blair and his legacy: which is something worth celebrating, although perhaps not with absinthe and chaise longues. Professor Greg Walker 7

Bedlam

When choosing a play, there are so many different aspects that have to be taken into account; from production merit to style and cast, and from tech requirements to that special je ne sais quoi. When choosing of the winner for the recent joint venture between PublishED and Bedlam, all we knew was that it needed to be something which could make a great play on stage. The only problem was we received so many plays which could have fit the bill.

The submissions ranged from an enchanting story of unrequited love, through some thought-provoking physical theatre to a full hour of epic poetry. The judges were director Francesco Stefano Palazzo, Kieran Johnson, Sarah Thegby and myself. Several winter hours and cups of tea passed; many passionate outbursts for the one play over the other ensued. Finally, Avocado Tuesdays was to be the winning choice; it had a sense of wit, charm and eloquence with a distinct evolution of the characters and plot. It held a certain charisma for the zeitgeist of period drama which seems to have recently intrigued many homes of late. With the rise of Upstairs Downstairs

Theatre

and Downton Abbey, Avocado Tuesdays seemed to work perfectly, combining Oscar Wildean satire and the charm and broodish romance of a Jane Austen novel. It appealed to all of us unanimously for different reasons. The elimination process was a tough one, particularly with regards to the runner up. In the end, Rattlelance by Dean Fairbank was selected due to his terrific use of poetry in an epic tale of tragedy. Anyone who manages to write 60 minutes of poetry and put it into a working play deserves the highest recognition. It is a play to look out for in the future. The winning Avocado Tuesdays is a story that transcends the situation we see, and tells of the nature of people and the workings of our society. A play with a great deal of humour and intrigue, with none too little self-deprecating human insight. It is certainly something worthy of being chosen for the PublishED and Bedlam collaboration. We hope you will agree when you see it yourself. Rosalind Brown

Script

Compet tion

29, 30, 31 of March

Emily McFarland Avocado Tuesdays will be staged in Bedlam Theatre, the oldest student run theatre in Britain, home to the Edinburgh University Theatre Company. Bedlam puts on over 40 shows a year – this year’s program has included an interpretation of Twelfth Night as a tragedy (shortlisted for the National Student Drama Festival, ISDF2012), Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Bertold Brecht’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle and its very own Harry Potter-themed pantomime. In addition, the building hosts improv’ comedy troupe The Improverts, who have been performing with the EUTC for over 20 years and sell out every night of the Fringe festival. Any member can propose a show that the company votes through, and, if successful, experiment with all aspects of production. Workshops and produc-

tions alike provide students with a unique opportunity to learn about all aspects of theatre, including lighting, design, soundscaping, stage design, producing, directing and acting. Many Bedlamites go on to train at the best drama schools in the country while others move directly into the professional world, including critically acclaimed playwright Ella Hickson and Fringe favourites, The Penny Dreadfuls. As a listed building and historical landmark, Bedlam Theatre is unique as a space as well as a community, with students maintaining the building themselves throughout the year. To get involved or buy tickets for Avocado Tuesdays visit www.bedlamtheatre. co.uk - £4.50 for students and £5 for non-students. Roxy Cook

See the winning play Avocado Tuesdays performed at Bedlam Theatre, 7.30pm, on the 29th, 30th & 31st March. For now, read an extract over the page. Tickets will be available at: www.bedlamtheatre.co.uk

An Extract From Avocado Tuesdays

Robertson:

Anything else, My Lady?

Emintrude:

That is all, thank you.

Set just before the outbreak of WW1.

Robertson:

Yes My Lady.

Out-dated furnishings, very fussy décor. Emintrude wears purple. Emintrude and Rose sit at a table sipping tea. Empty plates scatter the table: Emintrude has just finished eating and wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin affectedly.

Robertson exits.

Emintrude: It is quite incontrovertible my dear! Avocados should only ever be served with jam. Rose:

With jam?

Emintrude: But of course – it is the only logical accompaniment. Rose raises her eyebrows, and then turns and waves to newcomers. Robertson announces Callista and Amelia enter. Rose: Ah! There you are! No – don’t just sit down: greet your aunt properly, like the wellmannered, respectful girls I brought you up to be. The girls greet Emintrude, each kissing her on the cheek. Rose: That’s better. Now, your aunt has just been telling me that the only way to eat avocado is with jam. May I suggest that you try some? Emintrude: Excellent, excellent! I knew you’d come round to the notion in the end. There really is nothing better. She licks her lips in anticipation, and beckons over the butler. Robertson, I think we shall be needing more avocados for my charming nieces. And bring out the strawberry jam - Petunia sent it up from Suffolk last week, such a dear… 10

Rose: It’s rather too early in the season for strawberries, surely? Emintrude: Too early? No such thing my dear! Everything – and I mean everything – is at its best when it’s green. Avocados for instance. Peak of ripeness. Wait, and they turn brown. It’s not healthy. Nothing that is not green can possibly be healthy. Strawberries are just the same. I don’t understand this modern mania for waiting until things have progressed past green to some utterly vile shade. Whoever heard of eating something red and believing it to be good for you? Red berries are poisonous after all. And red apples, much too sweet! Callista and Amelia stare at Emintrude in openmouthed wonder; Rose is slightly better at concealing emotion but still seems a little shocked. Robertson returns. The jam is green and he carries a bowl of avocados. Robertson, thank you. Now girls, wouldn’t you like some jam and avocado? The girls shake their heads vehemently. Robertson:

Will that be all, My Lady?

Emintrude:

Yes, thank you Robertson.

Robertson places bowl and jar on the table and withdraws. Callista: Aunt Emintrude, we really are terribly sorry, but you see, on our way here we passed by the most divine ice-cream shop. We simply had to stop, and now, well, we may have eaten too much. I don’t think we could possibly eat another thing. Indeed I’m feeling a little sick - how about you, Mia?

The Winning Play Amelia nods her head frantically. Rose softly clears her throat and looks witheringly at her daughters. Rose: Callista, I will not remind you again: your sister’s name is Amelia, not Mia. Abbreviations do not suit the upper classes. You will never find a husband if you persist in this vulgarity. Emintrude: My dear, correct though you undoubtedly are in calling Callista up on this failing, might I point out that there is a far greater misdemeanour to be considered: your errant daughters have deliberately ruined their appetites with sweets when they were both fully aware of their long-standing engagement to join me for tea. Indeed, how could they not be? I am certain that it is the highlight of their every Tuesday, and perhaps – dare I flatter myself – their whole week. I cannot conceive of any reason why they might wish to insult me in this way. I am most put out! Callista: Dear Aunt, you must know that it wasn’t like that at all! You see, the shop, it had this pull on us, so strong we couldn’t possibly resist, we tried, but it was stronger than any magnetic attraction. It quite literally pulled us through the door. Before we knew what was happening we were choosing flavours and nice ladies in stripy clothes were spooning it into cones for us. They should really post warning signs on those places. They are quite lethal. But they didn’t, and we both fell victim: there really was no resisting. There wasn’t, was there Mi – I mean, Amelia? Amelia: No, none at all! It was like magic. And it was so good. And it was sweet, and creamy and chocolatey and there were sprinkles and fudge sauce… Amelia looks dreamy. Callista kicks her under the table. Callista: (Aside to Amelia) That’s enough. (To everyone) You see? It was utterly bewitching, irresistible. We really are most awfully sorry aunt, but you must see that we are totally blameless in this. Next time I shall make a point of asking Rogers to drive us here on a different route.

Emintrude: Really, I’m surprised you haven’t exhausted all possible routes to my house by now – I am quite amazed that there should be so many roads leading to my house. Indeed I did not think there were so many in all of England! But you do seem to find a new one each week. Why, last week it was the bakery with giant meringues, and the week before you passed by the zoo and simply had to go in – that week you missed our tea entirely – and before it was Amelia’s craving for Brighton rock – whoever heard of something so absurd as a detour to Brighton on the way from Piccadilly to Kensington? You were a full 6 hours late and so tired that I sent you straight home. I forget what came before, but there’s always something. Rose, I strongly recommend that you teach your daughters some much needed self-control and try to reign in that phenomenally sweet tooth of theirs. Rose bows her head in acceptance of the admonition. I don’t suppose you’d like some avocado, dear? You said you wanted to wait for the girls before eating. There’s no reason that their lack of appetite should impact upon your desire to eat. Rose: Really, it is most kind of you. I have rather lost my appetite with this scene of the girls’. I fear I must get them home and give them something unpleasant to do as punishment. And besides, I am trying to watch my weight. They are frightfully fattening, you know– not for you of course – you are quite perfect and never seem to change! Emintrude: True, very true. I don’t believe I’ve aged at all since first we met. How old is Hemmingway? Twenty-two? It must be close on 25 years since I met you at Linda Hamilton’s coming out ball. Indeed I do believe that it was I who introduced you to Simon. You have a great deal to thank me for I think. My greatest dislike is for ingratitude: see that you punish the girls severely. Dawn-Fleur Charman See Avocado Tuesdays performed at Bedlam Theatre 7.30pm, 29th, 30th, 31st March. Tickets available at: www.bedlamtheatre.co.uk 11

An Extract From Rattlelance: Poem 7 (Scene 4)

Rattlelance is a failed poet, and his works are the laughing stock of the local literati. Upon cursing his ineptitude, Rattlelance wonders if the Devil can provide him with the words he is looking for. There is the crashing sound of silence and smoke resonates from the well. The Devil appears and sleekly slithers out and up the steps in flowing black hooded robes. Everything is still as he moves. The Devil positions himself behind Rattlelance and begins the poem. The Devil:

Will the suppliant please rise!

Rattlelance turns terrified and ignores his request. The Devil:

You are charged with desiring the magic words of hell How do you plead, within your mortal shell?

Rattlelance: Guilty, indeed, your words are what I need. The Devil:

Then we must negotiate before we proceed.

Rattlelance: Well the story usually goes that you bargain for my soul. The Devil:

Well how clever of you, child to already know. Name your conditions be clear and controlled. Then when we’re sure I can simply bestow.

Rattlelance: Well I want the missing word, but there are some conditions I can’t be ripped off or left with slight nigglings.

The Devil:

Don’t play around now, come on name your biddings.

Rattlelance:

Now the wise would do well to make patient his stance For a contract is kneading a twin acceptance My soul is not mere or a single trifling It’s an agreement between us who confide.

The Devil:

Pacta sunt sevanda, you fool I am that constitution by which you are ruled! Mine is not exclusively a mortal contract What you sign with me is an eternal pact.

Rattlelance:

Then let us agree on an oral contract It shall suit us both as a matter of fact For an immaterial soul, it makes perfect sense To have no need for material evidence.

The Devil: Denied! Be it signed, or there is no deal Words are for the wind, feelings and whims The written code is for… dealings more grim. For once written no feeling or wind can steal Now let us get on, for so pressing is spiel. Crittenden, then, no woman holds your soul?

The Runner Up Rattlelance: I surley hope not, let’s ask the wine bowl. And who will enforce the laws of contract? The Devil:

Nature oversees; that ignored old hag.

Rattlelance: Ok, I agree with the terms we arrange The Devil:

Ok, so your soul for the word in exchange.

Rattlelance: And if I should use your word on my page? The Devil:

Your soul belongs to me forever enchained.

Rattlelance: I’m grateful for the remedy that rhyming pre arranged. The Devil:

WHAT!

Rattlelance:

Condition and warranty are terms that apply Breach of these terms repudiates law’s eye If I don’t use it, it’s no word I seek If it’s not what I asked then the contract is breached If it’s not on the page my soul remain mine The primary term if you want me to sign!

The Devil:

Phenomenological, moral consideration I cannot agree to your brash stipulation It’s granted my word’s best, strait from hell! Of course this word is the one perfect to tell.

Rattlelance: Well if you’re so sure you are able to sign. The Devil:

Sure as black hell, now just show me the line!

The Devil signs as does Rattlelance, once it is signed Rattlelance: Now then finally, the word, let us have it The Devil leans forward and whispers in his ear... there is a silence... Rattlelance: Is that it? The Devil nods

RUBBISH!!!! Rubbish, absolute rubbish

Rattlelance begins pushing Devil down the steps. RUBBISH! Rubbish what utter rubbish you thuggish clown from under the ground, you’ve nothing profound or of the sound that I seek to hell with you and the words that you speak! The Devil is kicked back down the well head first.

Dean James Brian Fairburn

oetry P

The spring issue has come around and yet again we’ve found ourselves overwhelmed by the amount and quality of the poems submitted. As always, choosing was not easy, but we found a common thread linking some submissions. The end of winter seems to have inspired vibrant, thrilling poetry: ‘Flight’, ‘Catch of the Day’ and ‘Bathrobe’ pulsate with images of escape, violence, and strident love, both unsatisfied and reciprocated. These are balanced by poems such as ‘Eggshells’ and ‘6.07 to Aberdeen’, nostalgic and pensive, and by others that tell lovely stories, as ‘The Goose-Keeper’ or ‘December Marginalia’. Much more could be said about both of these poems, but we’ll leave it to you to read and form an opinion of your own. Reading and choosing these poems was a real treat, and we hope you enjoy them as much as we did! Claudia Marinaro & Karishma Sundara Poetry Editors

Catch of the Day Even landed in death, through glass Streaked with blood and old brine, Strange fish ensnare me on hooks Of grey pupils and gaping mouths. Struck by the clout of their stares, I stop on the flooded pavement And imagine eating their eyes: How I would relish and roll Those tense eggs along my teeth, Their sudden, gelatinous bursts – Only brittle lenses left behind To tease my gums. Neatly diced by the edge Of his mottled marble counter, The old fish-monger fillets My fresh body – My scales shed to the floor.

Elizabeth Newnham

The Illusionist A single, stiff card stands at an awkward angle trying to contain a lifesworth of apologies for missing photographs and the white coat, now dusty and the birthday card two days late every year the barest lines of some basic ink, India or Royal Blue the coldness of a fountain pen that nestled in his pocket like his hand never nestled on hers tell the child who never stopped believing that magic isn’t real the card, thicker thatn the dusty notes he folds into a brown wallet on the train to a home that doesn’t fit turns a lifetimes afternoon into a memory of childhood folly that will never be repeated even when the rabbit comes out from under the sofa and before she dies she will forget the words and remember when the magic came to life in a pair of fitting red shoes the best part of belief is the lie Matt Macdonald

Bath Robe I see eight angels perched with pitchforks on my windowsill, and they slip down off-white bath robes in the back room of a black night, and talk theory into the thinning dark, but I see more philosophy in the crevices of their cum-stained stomachs, than in the wipsy breath that leaves their whistling pouts. Leading all eight to a room where I keep everyone’s ex-wife tied to a radiator by dental floss and school ties, they ignore and talk of God and fate and mass produced benches intended for individual prayer, but I can’t concentrate, outside I hear the cities’ creek of rain and murder and carsex and phonesex; and I try to find a chorus in it. But it’s either rain hitting concrete, or blood dropping to leather, or a moan under an engine’s rev or a squeal into a child’s pillow. And M.T.V. won’t have that. They sit like cowboys and through the stencil of a swan, suggest, but they cover coyly with a bound book, and flick skeletal pages across wood beaks, dictating in a carousel of accent, a symphony of something, but all I see in my copy are letters, and potential ransom notes, and the sodden mark of moist mascara fallen. Sixteen eyes, like marbles spinning backwards into youth, with ant-legs for eyelashes, pulled off my bent fingers. And sprinkled over fairy cakes, for the Parish party bake sale, but I still swallow whole and chew and hope I’m holier. Cut to me throwing up an insect’s body and asking for forgiveness. And it’s either rain hitting concrete, or blood dropping to leather, or a moan under an engine’s rev or a squeal into a child’s pillow. And G.O.D won’t have that.

Trainlines and dreamscapes: rocking me gently nightwards and northwards, up up into the snow-drift seagull-cried north. I am always swathed in sleep, wrapped in words; the small of my back shuddered soft with the cradling of tiny earthquakes. Always, his love tightly gripped in my fists. Katiya Lua

Emily McFarland

6.07 to Aberdeen

Jack Murray

r o s e P

Selecting six prose pieces from a pool of excellent submissions is never easy. With each new issue of The Inkwell, the task feels increasingly akin to Sophie’s Choice. Although the submissions we received were not our own brainchildren, we truly wish some of them had been. While the quality of the writing we receive never ceases to astound, it was the imagination behind these ‘final six’ that truly captivated us. The following six pieces represent the best of a fantastic lot of submissions, and we hope you find yourselves just as entertained as we were while reading a nostalgic letter from the future, a curious tale of strangers meeting in an unlikely place, and some original thoughts on texting. And hopefully, the next time you’re at the circus, or around water, or anywhere really, you’ll recall some of the quirkily charming prose our local talent has provided, and find yourself smiling.

Extract

from

‘S’il Vous Plaît’

About an hour after my odd conversation with Charlie, I found myself standing in the self-help section of Barnes & Noble. I hadn’t planned on being there. In fact, I don’t know if anyone really plans on heading for the self-help aisle when visiting the local bookshop. It’s more one of those sections you wander into when you’re not sure what you’re looking for. Unless of course you’re like my friend Meg, who routinely hoards self-help books and puts them on her nightstand so she can tell me she’s on her way to becoming a “self-actualised person.” Once I realised where I was, I really wasn’t sure whether I was comfortable being there. In my mind, the self-help section was for women who cried themselves to sleep and people on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and since I was neither, I probably should have left right then and there. Of course at this point, curiosity got the better of me. I’d never toyed with the idea of reading selfhelp books before, especially not considering I was raised to believe they were for the lonely, the traumatised, and the emotionally unstable. But the longer I stood there, the more I was tempted to leaf through a copy of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. Mostly because the longer I stood there, the more I thought I might be lonely and emotionally unstable. Traumatised, not so much, since the only trauma I’ve ever had to endure was seeing my overweight college roommate, Eric, in his speedo.

Finally, I conceded, “to hell with self-preservation!” I could pick up a self-help book if I want-

Vicki Madden & Stephen Worthington Prose Editors

ed. After all, other perfectly dignified people had done so before me, so why not? A suitable answer might be because reading the first page of a self-help book reminded me of accidentally picking up a copy of the Kama Sutra in my school library when I was fourteen and morbid curiosity got the better of me. By “accidentally”, I of course mean I did so with an overwhelming sense of purpose only to realise a moment later that I’d made the biggest mistake of my young life and some awkward authority figure was clearly going to catch me with that “dirty” book in-hand. The paranoia became so overwhelming that I decided the least suspicious thing to do would be to stuff the book back on its shelf, fumbling a few times in the process. Eventually the paranoia and vague recollection of my 14-year-old antics passed, as I realised the likelihood of my boss catching me out and humiliating me publicly for reading a self-help book was quite slim. I decided I’d be better to bite the bullet and pick up a copy of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. I’d never been particularly effective at anything, so perhaps it was time I joined Meg on her path to becoming a “self-actualised person.” And that’s when something unusual caught my eye. Not a book, but a man reading a book. It must have been a combination of what he was wearing and what he was reading, and the fact that he seemed oddly familiar. Standing in the back of the aisle was a man dressed in a black trench coat at least two sizes too big – the kind reserved for neighbourhood flashers and

hipsters attempting to appear aloof and nonchalant. His outfit was made all the more puzzling by the odd combination of a bowler hat and converse high-tops. Had the man been younger, the hightops wouldn’t have looked so awkward, but judging by his face, he was at least thirty-odd, unless potential flashers have an innate tendency to look much older than they are. Despite the incongruous outfit, he had a distinct air of reformed workaholic about him, one similar to my father’s. I wondered momentarily if he was perhaps in the same line of business as my dad but couldn’t remember the last time Dad wore a flasher jacket and high-tops to Barnes & Noble. His deep brown eyes betrayed little emotion, which was odd considering the book he was reading. He seemed completely engrossed in this book, which was all the more worrying. At first I wasn’t sure whether I’d read the cover correctly. Perhaps I’d missed something the first time around. But after scrutinising it for another 30 seconds, sheer panic began to spread through my body. He was reading a copy of 1001 Reasons Not to Kill Yourself. I wasn’t even aware people were allowed to publish books with such worrisome titles.

Emily McFarland

The panic I felt was inevitably compounded by the fact that somewhere deep down, I knew I recognised this man. I racked my brain trying to find where I might have seen him before, but couldn’t for the life of me remember. Perhaps I was conflating his visage with something from a dream or a magazine or one of my freshman year lectures. I’d always been bad at placing people, but never before had I been faced with such a strong sense of recognition.

And then it hit me: the 8am line for coffee at Starbucks. That’s where he was from. The bowler hat was definitely new, as I would have remembered that one, surely. I wasn’t sure about the high-tops though, mostly because how often do you really focus on the footwear of the person in front of you in line at Starbucks? I apprehensively inched closer to this strange man, attempting to get a better read on his expression. I knew it really wasn’t any of my business if suicide was on this poor chap’s agenda, but still, was I not, as a morally-responsible citizen and loyal devotee to my neighbourhood Barnes & Noble, obligated to intervene if suicide was indeed his plan? Probably not, I realised. After all, we had no prior affiliation with each other aside from a mutual love for massmarket coffee. If he wanted to ponder suicide, who was I to stop him? Yet I just could not bring myself to walk away. Not wishing to appear like a stalker, I picked up a copy of The Art of Seduction and began leafing through it madly, my real purpose being to study the face of this potentially suicidal man. His expression appeared calm, pensive even. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing, given the situation, but perhaps I was just making a big deal out of nothing. And then as he turned the page of his book, I found myself opening my mouth to speak. “Please don’t kill yourself,” I said plainly, and immediately wanted to stick my foot in my mouth. Kathryn Bailey

oetry P

The Goose-Keeper I built a little house of stone, there to live, Out on rain-washed heath land left for waste, Where birthing thorns would brush their teeth In deeps of peat and antique earth. The cool sun lobbied the lakes’ indifference, Sewed weeds of light in withered nooks; My house lay moored, for seasons tethered By its own art to the arid land I sentried for. I kept geese, tried to teach them how to say their names And failed. They viewed me, conspirators With absurd eyes, and gossiped in their own code. Well-fed, not meant for slaughter. Good birds. One night I woke from solitary sleep having left The back gate open, stepped into the yard to greet Them and found nothing but the useless eyebrow Of the heath. Their arrowhead had fled elsewhere, Unsighted. The briars won’t tell where they went. Abandoned by my girls, I shrugged a tear And let the house to rent. A few came; passersby Or hikers, mostly, contouring the steep bowl. What dream deferred to the blindside of a lake, And what wind first helped that dry heath’s atoms Create? I still call in, when the city’s battery’s Flat. Always, in the gale, the odd sky shakes.

Emily McFarland

Dominic Hale

December Marginalia (for two voices) You stared a bore-hole through me at the bar and wouldn’t let my eyes from yours. I stuck to what I knew and asked you back to mine; but, when you refused, my tongue caught in my throat, and only you could pick the latch. Outside, the night opened like an eye. * You are: a field for me to till. a vein for me to tap. a bus caught on time. an unexpected full rhyme. a caught-my-eye-across-the-club first try. a comma, rightly placed. not him. * See my mouth, wide like a pomegranate, little yawning cat in the underwing of bedsheets, marked with the night’s map. Give me a morning, an hour of light, and I’ll peel you apart like a poached rabbit. * Come and sit by the canal. I’ll bring the one rotten apple from the bowl and leave tangerines on the kitchenside. We’ll find a cove of hawthorn and sneak kisses between the boats.

We can go to Europe, taste its sun-sunk eastern vines, see its poverty; Cambridge has left my stomach sick of money. Come, Woolyback; we’ll seek out warmer climes. * They went out to wet the baby’s head, which I knew was a euphemism for something. As he left he said he was looking for love, but he came back with a boy whose skin was like an olive, pitted and waiting to be stuffed. * This is: our song, played after we left the club. a birthday, missed. a note, lost in the post. a swallow, caught in the keeper’s glove. a dove, ring-necked in the wood saying something I never could. * I thought about you on New Year. You were in a Liverpool backyard, I was in Times Square. Just thought you should know. * I thought it up in the pretty silence of the library; lived out December bathing in the lines of leftover verse. Now, meeting up in a coffee shop, me bored of you and you, I hope, entirely bored of me, I crawl back into my book, cornerhidden crab, and don’t look up until you’ve left. Seán Hewitt

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r o s e P

The Flesh Is Weak We miss the days when things were simple. The easier days, when space was not as we wished it. Those easier days, to have no understanding. It is anachronistic of us to speak of days. But this letter must be dressed in the idioms of your kind; our kind as was. We have gone to great efforts to write this in speech which you will easily comprehend. Were we to confuse it, by writing that all days are one day, which is by being a day not a day, and is by being one day all days, and some days, and every day in turn except the one which it was to begin with, you would grow confused. It is very difficult for us to speak this simply. Please, appreciate the effort. The flesh is weak. This will be the problem. It already has been, for us, but it will be, too. The other problem is that you are beginning to comprehend. We send this to you because you are balanced on the crux, the core, the critical juncture where your individual understandings are coalescing to form a whole. Please, do not allow this to happen. It will make things hard for us, who once were you. Stay safe. Stay safe blanketed in the understanding that space is not time, that time is not space, and that space-time is not momentum space. Or if you must explore, stay safe behind analogies. Continue to say that mass distorts space and time like a ball on a rubber sheet. Understand it as the ball, and not as itself. Please, do not seek to understand. Say if you will that all space and time, and all momentum, make up phase space which is a whole unto itself. But do not think this in the everyday. Do not ignore three o’clock because once you go past it you can always walk back. Do not, when asked where you live, reply “around about teatime.”

Because it has grown very hard for us, who must bear the cross of being your descendants, whilst at any time able to stretch out and brush your ancestors’ robes. Because the flesh is weak. Your understanding evolves, but it still has the room. You are on the crux, but not yet across it; you can still believe that teatime is different to the end of the street, and that before does not come after never.

Your brains can still hold in their pith and foam the knowledge which you have to offer them. We, who will come after, have learned too much. Our conscience throbs with understanding which our weak neurons and axons have no room for. It pains us, physically pains us like the tearing of sinews, to think. We who know too much, know only despair. Please, do not cluster to overcome this pain. Do not think that making every aching brain a neuron of a greater brain, connected by technology, will allow us to transcend our straining minds. Evolution does not offer us the option of starting afresh, we cannot suddenly upgrade from grey matter to graphene chips. All the machines can do for us is store what we have already learned, until it is too much to take in. They cannot make us think in phase space, they can only remind us constantly that we have to. Do not put your faith in the singularity; it will be a plurality of ignorance, spiking your tender minds time and again with the knowledge that your knowledge is insufficient. Do not aspire to mastery. Absolute power enslaves absolutely. So halt your education, before it all becomes clear. Tell yourselves by all means that the flap of the butterfly’s wings may cause hurricanes millennia later, but do not act at every second as though this were true. Do not become like us. Because we have learned much, giddy on the pure truth of science. We have learned many things. We have learned how to forget, absolutely, that a place is not a time which is not a speed. We have learned to understand the true fabric behind Einstein’s simplified worldview, where everything truly is relative, even unto itself. We have learned the falsity of self, the utter holistic nature of reality which you already suspect—but have not yet learned to assume. Once you do, you will be truly enlightened. You will leap centuries with a single thought, and watch the quivering strings of causality radiate from your every action with a breathtaking clarity. And it will hurt, because the flesh is weak. We have not the capacity for this responsibility. We can no longer take a pace without knowing how each

stone which we tread on will impact the world in a million yearsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time. Because we are in that million yearsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time, and everywhere else, and everywhen. Uncontrollably. Fluctuating in our multitudes, with every action at every distant time causing more actions which contradict the ones from before. We are getting lost in the static. We have evolved too far. It has taken a very great effort for us to write you this letter, and to inveigle it into your world by plausible means. It would have been easier for us to step through and address you ourselves, but the events triggered by such a rending of when and where would have been truly unpredictable, a migraine of cause-and-effect. We would have crumbled under the complex logic of stepping into the when which caused the when from which we stepped in order that we might prevent the latter. Crumbled in our multitudes, and in pain. So we have restrained ourselves, with an effort the like of which you will never know. And we have dampened our hyperactive genius for long enough to write you a simple plea: stop now. Stop now before you become us. Because you already have, and it is unbearable. You have achieved, and accomplished. We are enlightened. And O, we suffer.

Aran Ward Sell

Laura Tomlinson

rama D

Edinburgh, UNESCO City of Literature, we hear it time and time again. However, it really became evident to us, from the breadth and quality of this issue’s submissions, just how true it is. Here we have the sombre reflection of Victoria Lindström’s For Sale: Baby Shoes and a Broken Heart sideby-side the comic pastiche of Dean Fairbairn’s Rattlelance. Seeing the winning play of our drama competition, Avocado Tuesdays by Dawn-Fleur Charman, grow from an idea into a reality has been an exciting challenge. Together with the EUTC, PublishED has brought together a community of student directors, actors, and an entire production team to make it happen - which is exactly what The Inkwell set out to do just over a year ago: find new ways to share the many talents of our students. It’s our way of taking part in this literary city. Happy reading! Kieran Johnson & Sarah Thegeby Drama Editors

For Sale: Baby Shoes and a Broken Heart Extract: SCENE 2 Loraine drops her keys into the bowl on the table in the vestibule. She crosses her arms and looks at Gerard. Loraine:

So it’s “son” now is it?

Gerard: It’s just an expression. But you’re right; it is a fitting one seeing as how I am his father. Loraine: Is that so? You know very well that Hector is Clark’s dad and I don’t want you to come here and think that you have any claim on my son. Gerard: Your son? You only made him your very own because you made damned sure I stayed away all these years! I’ve barely gotten a conversation on the phone with the kid and meeting him Loraine: That is not true. And I am not having this conversation again. You are here now because I consider Clark old enough and you were very persistent in your petty demands to come here.

they watch each other and Loraine smokes her cigarette. She puts it to her mouth for a final inhale and then breaks the silence. Loraine:

What’s in the box?

Gerard: It’s for Clark, but I wanted to run it past you first. Loraine:

I’m here right now,

She puts the cigarette out and gestures her head towards him, and there is a pause.

Show it to me.

Gerard takes the box from the table, gives it to Loraine and then returns to leaning onto the table. Loraine looks at the box and then opens the lid. As she sees what’s inside she looks up at Gerard with raised [skeptical] eyebrows. Loraine: (Sarcastically.) You didn’t think they might be too small for him? Gerard: Of course I know they’re too small. It’s a gift of sentimental value, not practical, Loraine. (Almost mocking) Sentimental,

Gerard: Of course I’m bloody persistent! Whatever you say, Clark is my son!

Loraine: oh I see.

Loraine exhales, as if ending the conversation. She removes her jacket, enters the kitchen and lights a cigarette by the kitchen fan.

She puts the box with the shoes on the counter.

Gerard:

You smoke now?

Loraine:

Yes I smoke now.

There is a pause between the two in silence while

And exactly what sentimental value do you think my son would find in a pair of never worn baby-shoes, Gerard? He’s a bit young to make a grandmother out of me, don’t you think? Gerard:

Don’t do that.

Loraine:

Do what?

Gerard: Act like you don’t understand what this is about! You know very well that when you told me we were having Clark, I was overwhelmed Loraine: Overwhelmed?! Try horrified! You smiled and played giddy for five minutes before you said you had “somewhere to go”, and then you disappeared. It was really classy, to abandon your pregnant girlfriend. Gerard: Is that what you think I did? Is that why you moved away with your parents and refused to listen? I went out to buy those (gesturing to the box with the shoes) for our son; I wanted to build a family together with you. Loraine inhales and speaks icily. Loraine: Yes, well, I managed quite well on my own, with Hector, thank you. Gerard: Oh yes. Hector. Let’s discuss shan’t we? (Ironic) Just think of all the lovely things he does for our son Loraine:

Stop it.

Gerard: Oh really how much quality time they have together? Loraine:

Don’t.

Gerard: What one might call a real father-toson relationship, playing catch, hiking, or even talking about girls his age. Loraine:

Enough!

Loraine: That’s right, and what do you think it’s been like for him without his father? You were never here during his childhood! Gerard: Because you never let me near him! You were all set with your computer-chap and floral decorations in the garden, but did you ever consider the happiness of your son?! Our son? Loraine: Enough with the flowers already! I’ll throw them out if that’s what you need. Gerard: Don’t you see? That’s what you need, what Clark needs. Some balance. Life isn’t a puppet show you can direct the way you want. You get what you get. Nothing more, nothing less. Loraine: So, I suppose you’re all content with the way your life worked out? Nearly forty and a painter! Yes, I dare say you’ve done very well for yourself. Gerard:

This is not about me! It’s about -

Loraine:

Who? Clark? Hector? Me?

Gerard: You! Yes, you! How do you live this life? How are you so different from the Lorrie I knew? What happened? Loraine: I grew up. I changed. I started smoking. I got myself a decent life. Gerard: Quite obviously one you are seemingly content with. Loraine: I would say it seems I am obviously content with it, thank you. Gerard:

Fine. I am done arguing with you.

Loraine:

I’m glad.

Gerard: Yes! Finally, you see that is what I’ve had, and Clark too! What fifteen-year-old should have to say he can’t even play around in the backyard because his mum cares more about her flowers than she does for her son!

Gerard:

Just tell me, are you happy?

Loraine:

Very.

Gerard:

You’re happy now. I’m glad.

Loraine: (Also raising her voice.) You are crossing a number of lines, Gerry, cut it out!

Gerard exits.

Loraine steps over to him aggressively. Gerard raises his voice.

Gerard: No, I will not. You can buy new rhododendrons for crying out loud, but that kid’s childhood is never coming back!

Loraine: Lights fade.

I am happy now. Very happy. Now. Victoria Lindström 25

r o s e P

The Octopus’ Garden Martin was a sensible sort of man, sensible but irritable. The source of his irritation on this particular morning was the pond at the bottom of his garden. It currently marked the only obstacle in his plans to turn the bottom of the garden into a large herbaceous border and he was keen to press on; the garden centre had a special offer on geraniums. As he trudged irritably across the lawn, under his breath he bemoaned his great misfortune in having become the custodian of such an inconvenient water feature. It had been his grandfather’s house but now, as the last surviving member of the Ford family, it belonged to Martin. He had been left strict instructions, by way of his grandfather’s will, not to meddle with the pond under any circumstances. But who was to know? Martin thought as he peered into the murky, depressing water, certainly not his grandfather. Picking up a stick, he poked at the green sludge that lay thick on the bottom. It oozed and sucked and gave off a foul smell as he pulled the stick out again. Martin was about to turn away, his resolution strengthened, when a flicker caught his eye. He leaned out over the pond to get a better look, surely there couldn’t be anything living in there. He leaned, and leaned, and inevitably leaned too far. His footing slipped and the stagnant green water came rushing towards his face with terrifying speed. Martin felt a slap as his face broke his fall, breaking the water. Down and down he fell through the kaleidoscope of colours and limbs and water, such an awful lot of water; too much, surely. Over and over he tumbled, a damp sock ensnared by a washing machine. Bubbles leaked from the corner of his mouth and the folds of his sensible sort of jacket. Down and down, over and over in watery confusion until he felt something more solid rise up to meet him. Around his limbs, a thousand grains of sand leapt up into clouds and gradually dispersed themselves in the swell. If Martin’s head was swimming then it was the only part of him that was. The dark, deep pressure bore down on him from above and tipped him rhythmically from side to side. He felt one ear pop with a nau-

seating release while the other remained throbbing. When the calamitous sinking sensation had eased, Martin opened his eyes with what can only be described as immense trepidation. What he saw in front of him made him rather wish he hadn’t bothered. Giant kelp towered over him like skeletal parasols, dark, slimy leaves flapping slowly in the current. Large, fleshy shadows prowled through the thick stems, brushing them aside and making them sway. He was sitting at the mouth of an enormous cave, a gaping hole in the wall of rock in front of him. Algae slathered in all directions and curling purple tendrils poked out of every crevice. Just then, a stream of bubbles escaped from a crack near the bottom of the wall, rushing fitfully upwards, and it suddenly struck Martin that he could breathe. Or rather, to be strictly accurate, he seemed to have lost all need to perform this simple, vital activity. As he had this thought, Martin’s mind sat itself down in a corner and quietly boggled, slowly curdling into jelly. And then, one of the few things that could make Martin’s dire situation considerably worse happened. An alarmingly large tentacle curled itself lazily around the lip of the cave and gripped the rock with a damp sucking sound. This was followed by two more equally alarming tentacles which walked themselves around the lip, sucking and popping as they gripped and released rock. Martin stared, transfixed, dreading the sight of what was inevitably on the other end of the tentacles. Two large, pearly eyes slid out of the watery gloom, followed by a bulbous red body covered in angry white blotches. Martin blinked as the colossal octopus coiled out around the jaws of the cave. Blinking may seem a wholly inadequate response upon being greeted with such a sight, but blinking was about all Martin could manage in his current state of general stupefaction. As Martin stared the octopus winked, it definitely winked, and brought a large fat cigar up to what must be assumed was its mouth. It closed its pale eyes and took a long,

relishing drag. Smoke leaked out of fleshy pores all over its body and it opened its eyes, an unmistakable expression of pleasure on its terrible features. For Martin this was the last straw, as his crushing headache threatened to push his eyeballs out of their sockets, his body was wracked by one giant shudder and he retched, to no avail. The octopus slid one long tentacle slowly towards Martin who tried desperately push backwards. Sadly for Martin his motor functions seemed to have temporarily abdicated and the tentacle wrapped itself around his waist with a stomachturning, suckery strength. The last dregs of cigar smoke dribbled impossibly from the octopus’ body as it turned, releasing the rock face with a series of wet pops, and dragged Martin into the gaping darkness of the cave. Martin convulsed as slimy, moving things brushed past his face and crawled around his ankles. All he could see were the tentacles in front of him, pulsating, pulling him further into the cold, green gloom. Eventually, the octopus halted, bringing Martin up in front of its face. Again it winked, and flung Martin around a corner, releasing him at the last second. Martin was brought to his knees by the force of the octopus’ throw as he emerged in a vast chamber about the size of a particularly large cathedral. Tongues of green fire flared out of cracks in the walls, casting an eerie myrtle glow, and columns of sulphurous bubbles slipped from holes in the floor, spiralling gently upwards to gather in bobbing clouds at the ceiling. But it was neither of these extraordinary sights that made Martin gape, dumfounded, where he knelt. In the very centre of the chamber two dozen pairs of catfish were dancing a tango. Their movements were water-slow and graceful as they revolved and hovered across the green rock. Tails flared and rippled like the skirts of exotic women. Fishy bodies entwined as they circled the dance floor, moving to the eerie rhythm of the silence. Silence. An orchestral cacophony of silence bore down on Martin as he watched the slow beauty of the dancers. His stomach clenched like a fist as

one by one the partners turned, and looked at him. Their whiskers rippled excitedly as ninety six pale eyes fixed on the intruder. As Martin’s heart beat faster, and faster, running a marathon on its own, the fish began to glide, with calculated steadiness, towards him. Muscular tails flicked, and pale eyes dilated in knowing anticipation. Martin cried out in fear, bubbles streaming from his lips, and he dug his feet hard into the rock, forcing himself backwards. His escape was going really very well, all things considered, until, with an eye-watering crack, Martin’s head collided with the cave wall and consciousness slid droopily from his eyes. Martin coughed, dredging water from his lungs, which splashed merrily as it was reunited with the pond. Martin could feel water lapping around his lips. He opened his eyes, by now fully prepared to accept his watery, fishy fate. The first thing he noticed was the light. It was no longer green. It was bright and, dare he even think it, it was sunny. He lifted his head stiffly and took a deep breath. Air. He could breathe. Martin took two more joyous breaths of glorious morning air. Mown grass, the rhododendron was flowering, next door were frying kippers for breakfast. Bloody kippers, again. A sparrow chirped at him from the willow. Martin levered himself gingerly to his knees and finally to his feet, water dripping forlornly from the folds of his jacket. He poked the back of his head carefully, wincing at the painful lump his fingers discovered. It would be fair to say that Martin was extremely confused. He looked around him. Noticing a damp, angular rock protruding from the edge of the pond, he began to formulate the conclusion that he must have slipped, and knocked his head, rather hard. Yes, a bang to the head, that was a perfectly sensible explanation, he reassured himself. Martin turned to take one last look into the pond before heading back inside to place an order for a large delivery of soil. He cast a glance over the pond and his heart fleetingly paused. A single, pearly eye winked from the gloom. Jenny Hayward

oetry P

Eggshells 1. In this sea of cherry blossoms I could almost believe I were somewhere else; This crumple of unmade beds implies bodies City skylines are endless, and enduring. Prolific rooftops conjure a nation and they say that this world is ending – riots and pure chaos, on a whole new scale and I wonder, if we will feel a thing if we will return to that time, before the horses to nothing, to a garden of green god help us Secret narcissism disguised only by thin venetian blinds preened perfection, captured in a photograph we cannot escape definiton – A child’s hand pressed against glass and that photograph pinned to a wall in a whitewashed room.

2. I gather fallen leaves from a place I tried to keep in me through the collection of objects: napkins from favourite restaurants, plastic flowers, t-shirts I’ll never wear I cannot bear the thought of disintegration so I have placed those leaves in the heaviest book to prevent their decay I don’t know if it matters, this preservation, if the end is inevitable when I see these aged Fishmongers and reverent Butchers that stare out windows of vacant shops, these empty taxis absent passengers and takeaway food that no one will eat – Ava Kerr

Laura Tomlinson

I Have So Many Ancient Things I have so many ancient things that groan titanic weight/colossal guilt. In their beguiling state they moan; the weeping plead a painting brings, let us go. Not yet. Let us sleep.

Yet I find my eyes drifting to mountains on maps. So many ancient things have I, they lust A sad curve in their loneliness, trapped.

Like the satisfying pop a Port cap makes, Do you prefer people or things? You said. The glimmer-tinkled chink of a sapphire crest. Those years kept youth - (when staying for a For a time I was sated. History is magnificent. drink really meant ten and it didn’t matter if we slept.) The battle was won/lost by a genius no less. But what object can re-build the swish Of a kilt, the shape of a smile? I’d wished It in the smell an old book breathes, the violin’s Weep. They’ll have me waiting a tortured while.

I have so many ancient things. And none so elite as the crumbling marbles’ waste. And None so smooth as the contours of your face. Edward Salter

Balance

r o s e P

Elia is a tightrope walker. She has been a tightrope walker for all her life. When she was just a toddler her father would take her up the ladder to the wire, and walk her carefully back and forth, his large hands engulfing hers. One day he let go and she managed the last few steps to the platform, all on her own. This is how she learned to walk. Even now her steps are completely linear, her feet falling perfectly, exactly, one in front of the other.

She falls once when she is twelve, and always afterwards remembers each second in the air with perfect clarity. It plays over and over again in her head sometimes, a movie reel she can’t turn off. Before then, she had not thought you could fall, not really. She performs alone until she is twenty-three. And then, a change. She meets him in Prague, while she is watching another circus. She likes the way he walks, with exaggerated care. They becomes partners, performing together for a very long time. They walk from opposite ends to pass each other in the middle of the wire. They take turns standing on each other’s shoulders. They walk side by side. Then one night he says they should stop. He does not give a reason. He quits the high-wire and switches to another circus where - she hears - he performs on the trapeze. She runs into him again, years later. “I love the trapeze,” he says. “It’s like flying. I never really liked the high wire. All that shaking, all that shifting, all that precarious balance.”

She does not know whether she agrees with him. Each day she wakes up and dons the leotard and the tights. She paints on her make-up and sprinkles her face with glitter. She looks into the mirror and tries to decide whether she is happy with

Laura Tomlinson

She begins performing when she is five, dressing in thin gauzes and leotards; painting her face and sprinkling it with glitter. She likes the leotard and the paint and the glitter. She likes climbing up the ladder, and walking up so high. her life, but does not even know where to start. Would she be better off flying through the air as a trapeze artist? Or sticking her head in the tiger’s mouth? She is Elia, she is the tightrope walker. She walks out of her dressing room, up the ladder, and onto the wire, suspended over the hundreds of faces craned up. On top of the wire the world is silent, the audience an indistinct blur. She dances on the wire, does a flip on the wire, walks back and forth with so much ease. She comes to the end of her act. Slowly, she bends forward and wraps her hands around the cool metal solidity. When she feels the strength coursing through her arms and into her hands she pulls, lifting her feet up straight above her into the air. She raises one hand. And then, she stops. At first the audience stares, mesmerized, but after ten minutes the novelty wears off, and the show continues. The clowns come in an out, the incredible man is shot out of a canon and hero rides his motorbike around a cage. Still she stays. The show is over, the crowd trickles out one by one and the performers go to bed for the night. Still she stays on the wire. No one in the audience can do this. No one in the world can do this. Yet she is balanced so perfectly that she does not even waver. She is light as a petal, sturdy as a tree, and so perfectly balanced she could stay like this forever. Margaret Sessa-Hawkins

Sea Dog The rain spat buckets on her hat as she franticked down the cobbles, helter-skelter through puddles to the harbour. Rivulets ran between rounded stones and feet to merge and roll and slide in thick ribbons of bubbling glass down to ditches. A mackintoshed captain stood sheltered, watching the sea. Breathless, she asked, “Excuse me sir, do you have a minute?” “Anything for a lady.” he replied. “Well, you see, the thing is, I’ve lost my dog, and want your help.” “Haven’t seen any dogs, in this weather he’ll be hiding somewhere I bet.” “You don’t understand, I know he isn’t here, I know he isn’t anywhere in town.”

“No, I’ve looked everywhere!” “He’s probably dead then,” said the exasperated captain. “I know he isn’t dead.” “How?” “I want to know that he’s not dead.” Confused, the captain sighed, “Well, what do you want me to do then?” “Take me on your boat somewhere. If my dog isn’t here, he must be somewhere else, and I want to go there.” Momentarily, the wind forced the captain’s hand to his hat. “I’m afraid not.”

“How?”

The boat seemed to be struggling through heavy air.

“I’ve looked everywhere in town!”

“Why?”

The captain paused. They watched a creakwood boat hulk its way slowly over the windswell towards the harbour.

The pang caused by her pained response didn’t change his answer.

“Couldn’t you have missed him?”

Texting

“It’s bad luck to take a woman onboard.” Stuart Thomson

I’ve just sent you a text.

When I’m at my worst, I imagine you with your head on the muscular chest of the man you’ve just had a night of passion with, passion I could never emulate. He’s asleep, and as he breathes, your head rises and falls. You’re looking at my text and smiling because it’s funny. Neil Colquhoun

Emily McFarland

When I’m at my best, I imagine you looking at it, and smiling because it’s funny.

Poetry 32

Flight Like a storm you blanket my horizon, and I can only breathe in old photographs of Austin and Sacramento. You speak in thunderous strikes that burrow through lean muscle and live like leeches on my brain stem. I no longer leave the apartment. — My mother sends me a candle for New Year’s, a thin, fair-skinned wick enclosed by murky wax whose emancipation I leave on our coffee table next to the latest Time magazine. — Trees unfold richly in late April streets, but the oak outside our building holds fast to bare branches. I am exposed to my cage through Maya Angelou and gin. — The bruises begin to bear new weight until my skin is nauseated and my blood no longer comes. — I wait until you leave on business, until September breezes draw the curtains into midnight air. I take back the stones from my mother, and like a fugitive cross into the north. Astoria Aviles

The Ant-Swap I bend an ear to your sound, put my knees in the dirt, offer my orifices to you like doorways and dictionaries. Ant, a quick trek and I hope you’ll find (like a tongue’s first flirt with noise) enough voice to speak to me in antennas and eyes. I say, “The stone, the stone, through the grass, dirt, dirt, stick, and then the heat of sugar, the prized melting flesh of roadkill”. You say, “The sky, the sky, through the atmosphere, stratosphere, and then the heat of stars, the prized melting flesh of my cosmos”. Russell Jones

Dry Look at the barren landscape of your skin: a cracked mirage of hunger, dead wings and twitching things. Dust spills out your mouth, wet words from mine: they will die in your ear. My body curls like burning leaves (parched tongue, sticky sun) so I wander from stone to stone, looking for an oasis. Tell me, are your hands dry as desert or are your eyes clear water? You feel so much more than you show – inside there is a river of you, and I am dying for a sip. Carrie Cuno Laura Tomlinson

Photography by Claudia Marinaro & Anna Hafsteinsson

V E

Publish E D E vents A growing society of enthusiastic young writers and budding publishers, we aim to form links between the Edinburgh literary industries and the university community, in order to provide information and experience of the publishing and writing world for students. Alongside publishing The Inkwell magazine, the society hosts events and workshops to showcase and improve student writing, as well as to provide knowledge of how the publishing industry works and ways to break into it. All our events, including fundraisers and socials, are also great places to meet likeminded dreamers and scribblers.

With lots of ideas for events for next year, so much more is in the works! Coming to the end of our second year, we’re still experimenting and developing ways to provide students with the information and opportunities to get into writing and the publishing world. To keep up to date with our events and other useful information, whether student or nonstudent, keep checking the website and twitter feed or send us an email to join our mailing list! Sarah Hull President

Claudia Marinaro

Fundraisers in the past have included a Hallowe’en Ceilidh, open mic nights and the Big Second-Hand Book Sale (our annual September event). This year we’ve also had talks from local authors, bloggers and even the managing director of the Edinburgh publishing company, Luath

Press. Our Literary Fair in January was a fantastic event and welcomed twelve local literary companies, providing information on what the Edinburgh City of Literature has to offer.

Submissions to: submissions.theinkwell@gmail.com Information: publishedinburgh@gmail.com Visit the website at: publishedinburgh.weebly.com Follow us on twitter: twitter.com/PublishEDSoc And find us on Facebook, of course. 36

U K Competitions We like to keep you informed about what’s going on outside the student bubble. There are so many chances to get your work published and even win cash prizes. All you have to do is root around for the information. But we’ve done some of it for you! The Bridgport Prize Deadline: 31st May 2012 Over £15000 in various prizes bridportprize.org.uk Frome Festival Deadline: 31st May 2012 Short stories fromefestival.co.uk Poetic Republic Deadline: 30th April 2012 Prizes: £2000, £1000 poeticrepublic.com

Emily McFarland

Remember there’s nothing like a bit of rejection to make you a better writer. Then when you’re sitting on 40 published novels you can swirl your wine about and say ‘yes I had hundreds of rejections before my unique talents were discovered.’ The Royal Society of Literature Deadline: 29th June 2012 V.S. Pritchett Memorial Prize £1000 rslit.org Poetry London Competition Deadline: 1st May 2012 Prizes: £2000, £75 poetrylondon.co.uk/competition

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For 2012-13, the Department of English Literature is offering three exciting opportunities for writers who wish to explore their talents, foster their craft, and learn about publication. All programmes are taught by experienced teachers who are also well published writers.

MSc in Creative Writing This one-year, full-time taught MSc oﬀers students the opportunity to focus in depth on their own practice - of poetry or ﬁction - and develop both creative and critical skills through a combination of weekly workshops and seminars. For further information visit: http://www.ed.ac.uk/schools-departments/literatures-languages-cultures/englishliterature/postgraduate/taught-masters/creative-writing

MSc in Creative Writing by Distance Learning This three year, part-time course enables students to focus in depth on their own practice from the comfort of their own home. It oﬀers tutor and peer support and provides a clear framework with which to monitor development. It aims to develop awareness of process, to further craft and to raise writing and editing skills to the highest possible level. For further information visit: http://www.ed.ac.uk/schools-departments/literatures-languages-cultures/englishliterature/postgraduate/taught-masters

MSc in Creative Writing for Theatre and Performance This is a unique practical playwriting course and will appeal to aspiring playwrights, performance artists, directors, dramaturges and critics alike. Taught through seminars, writers’ workshops and practical workshops with actors, directors and other theatre professionals, it will focus not only on the craft of writing for performance but also on how a script plays out in real space and time, and in front of an audience. For further information please contact Nicola McCartney: nmccartn@staﬀmail.ed.ac.uk